


Chiaroscuro

by Purple_Mind



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, College Student Peter, Fluff, Identity Reveal, M/M, Photography, Pre-Slash, Precious Peter Parker, Secret Identity, Spideypool - Freeform, Wade Wilson Breaking the Fourth Wall, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug, Wade is around 28-30, dorks with a crush, rated teen because wade has a potty mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purple_Mind/pseuds/Purple_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter needs to take a good picture for a college course photography assignment, but can't, for the life of him, find a decent subject, and time is running out.<br/>It's a good thing Wade is willing to lend a hand (or, rather, another part of his anatomy).</p><p>Pure fluff: definitely not half as dirty as that last sentence would have you believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, wow. It's been years since I've published anything, and this is the first time I have the guts to actually post something I've written in English, and not my native tongue.
> 
> This is all Pete and Wade's fault. They've made my fingers itch to type again.
> 
> This piece follows absolutely no canon, movie or comic wise. It's kind of a mish-mash of pretty much everything, as you'll easily be able to tell.  
> Pure fluff, this once, but another (less innocent) piece is already in the works, so stay tuned.
> 
> Special thanks to my lovelies [Cuilchan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuilchan/profile) (cuil-chan on Tumblr), [stravaganza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/profile) (same username on Tumblr), and Vale (who doesn't have an Ao3 account and whose Tumblr username I can't remember atm cause I'm the worst) for the beta reading I repaid with love and cookies I have yet to bake.
> 
> Also, ten points to ( ~~Gryffindor~~ ) the person who spots the videogame reference I put in there.
> 
> That's all, folks, enjoy. :)
> 
>  **UPDATE:** There is now [gorgeous fanart ](http://itsscrow.tumblr.com/post/148769159679/not-the-greatest-thing-ive-ever-made-and-not) for this fic, made by the wonderful [ itsscrow ](itsscrow.tumblr.com/). Go give 'em all the love!
> 
>  **UPDATE 2:** There is now [ a sequel ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8267803/chapters/18941524) to this story, althugh it's still in the works. Enjoy. :)

 

 

Peter huffs, puffing warm air into his own mask.  
He can hear the shower running in the bathroom, as well as Wade’s loud and vaguely off-key rendition of _“All I want for Christmas is You”_. The calendar hanging lopsidedly off a rusty nail on the wall says today is April the 24 th, and Peter is sure he’d find Wade’s lack of timeliness more amusing if it didn’t indirectly remind him of the impending threat of _May_ , and the gargantuan pile of exams that comes with it.  
He huffs again, and closes his eyes. That, of course, does nothing to block out Wade’s voice.  
It would be fair to ask, at this point, why exactly Spider-Man would be close enough to Deadpool’s bathroom to hear his shower playlist in the first place.

Well.  
They… have a thing.  
Deadpool and Spider-Man have a _thing_.  
There really is no better way to explain it. Peter has tried. Several times.  
Even now, though he’s sprawled on Wade’s surprisingly comfortable couch, after a rare daytime patrol of New York City, he still isn’t able to conjure up a better term.  
After all, summarizing their relationship is hard enough as it is, without throwing concision into the mix.

The fact of the matter is, they sort of team up now, on a regular basis – often enough to have caught the Bugle’s attention, no less, and hasn’t _that_ been just a riot. Wade is on his best behaviour, meaning he refrains from un-aliving the baddie and/or criminal of the day, sticking to medium to serious injuries, Peter indulges in a little more risky action than he would usually get himself into, and they both get a decent deal out of the whole endeavour.  
Not to mention, the banter is up to eleven, and it frankly feels friggin’ _amazing_ to have someone who is willing to crack inappropriate jokes and quips in the middle of a fight, for once.  
Sure, Deadpool is loud, often obnoxious, but even before their little arrangement, when he still sort of hated his guts, Peter had to grudgingly admit that having Wade in the battlefield was entertaining as hell.

Something has changed in the last few months, though, something that prompted Peter to pick the eloquent term _“thing”_ for their current situation: after almost all of their patrols, they crash at Deadpool’s place, and just sort of… hang out.  
Yeah. Peter is very aware this is a bad idea.

He opens his eyes again, and he can see a tiny spider clinging to a thin thread stuck to the ceiling; if he squints _really_ hard, he’s pretty sure he can see it judging his life choices.

“Not cool, little guy.” He mumbles, distractedly. “Nobody ever give you the Arachnid Bro Code speech?”  
The spider remains conspicuously silent. Peter narrows his eyes behind the lenses of his mask.  
“I’m onto you.”  
  
“Are you talking to yourself?”  
The question comes unexpectedly, and Peter whips his head back so hard he’s pretty sure he’s pulled a muscle. Damn. Not _one_ of his heightened senses has had the curtesy of alerting him of the fact that someone else is standing in the room with him.  
He opens his mouth to reply, but Wade is, unsurprisingly, much faster.

“Not that I’m judging! This is a judgement-free zone! I mean, that’d be pretty hypocritical of me, giving you shit for talking to yourself when I’m the fucking _king_ of inner monologue and – _no_ , you shut up, that is totally the right word for what we do – and all that, besides –”

“I wasn’t talking to myself.” Peter manages to interject, even if Wade’s verbal tsunami is next to impossible to contain.  “I was talking to the spider.” He feels the need to add, as if it were a perfectly reasonable explanation.  
  
Miraculously, there is a beat of silence. Peter briefly considers walking up to the calendar and circling the date.  
“With… the spider.” Wade clarifies, slowly. “Is that, like… a thing? I thought Ant-Man was the bug whisperer.”  
  
“Spiders aren’t bugs.” Peter corrects automatically, and is very grateful for the mask he’s still wearing, since he’s apparently still a twelve-year-old who blushes because of awkward conversation.

Something distracts him soon enough, though, namely the awareness of the presence of his own mask finally prompting the realization that Wade isn’t wearing one himself.  
  
That isn’t such a weird occurrence anymore, not really; Peter has seen Wade maskless before, especially so as of late, but he tends to try and duck away from Peter’s eyes when he has his face bare, or at least to cover its upper part if he has to eat. But he must be distracted, now, probably by Peter’s sudden knack for inter-species communication, and he _is_ fresh out of the shower, only wearing a towel tightly wrapped around his hips (and the sight of a half-naked Deadpool isn’t distracting in the least, nope, not at all) so he probably isn’t even thinking about it.  
  
It doesn’t last long.  
Soon, Wade becomes aware of the situation, and his eyes go a fraction wider before he quickly makes his way to the window, turning his back to Peter.  
Peter is sure that the pang he gets in his gut isn’t one of disappointment.

“Whatever you say, baby boy.” Wade concedes, his voice as deceptively cheery as ever. “Maybe it’s just all that being thrown against hard surfaces and breathing fumes when you save folks from random house fires finally getting to ya.” He suggests, and that has Peter rolling his eyes.

“The stench of your place after Taco Tuesday hasn’t killed me yet, so I wouldn’t hold my breath on that theory.” He quips, the playfulness in his tone overshadowing any bite his words could have had.

Despite that, Deadpool puts his palm on his chest in mock affront. He’s facing Peter again, but the low, late-afternoon light coming from the window makes him look like a shadow.  
  
“Ouch. Low blow, Spidey. Very low.” He points an accusing finger at Peter, and his free hand goes to rest against his hip. “Don’t shame a brother for a bodily function that is a perfectly wholesome response to Mexican deliciousness. Nature is beautiful, and you should appreciate it more. Don’t you listen to our good Dr. Banner’s rants on renewable energy? Cause _I_ do. And I distinctly remember him saying that biogas is the cool shit right now. Aren’t you an honorary member of the _science bros_ team? Nerds united and all that? I’m disappointed in you, honestly.”

Peter tries not to laugh, he really does, but it’s a lost battle. There’s some worth in that loss, though, when he glimpses the outline of a genuine grin on Wade’s lips.  
His chuckles eventually die down, but the air around them is lighter than before, and Peter feels relaxed enough to open up a little more. Maybe a touch too much.

“Ugh, don’t talk to me about biology right now. Or chemistry. Or _science_.” He huffs, throwing one arm over his masked eyes. “I have like, a bajillion notes I need to revise when I get home.”

Peter doesn’t see Wade’s hairless eyebrow raise, but he can definitely catch it in the tone of what he says next.  
“Spidey, I’m gonna need you to be totally honest with me.” He says, and then pauses in a, Peter is sure, very deliberate way, for effect. “Are you jailbait? Cause I know I call you _‘baby boy’_ all the time, but I _really_ ain’t into the cradle robbing business."

For a moment, Peter wishes his mask were off, just so Deadpool could see exactly how hard he’s rolling his eyes at that question.  
“I’m in _college_ , you doofus.” He retorts, crossing his arms. “And we aren’t dating, so my age shouldn’t really concern you, should it?”

Deadpool heaves an exaggerated sigh of relief complete with fake sweat drying with the back of his hand, and Peter does _not_ find that sight strangely adorable. He does _not_. No sir. Not even a little bit.  
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to dwell on that thought too long, since Wade is still talking.

“Maybe so, but I’d still feel guilty if I found out I had a, I dunno, twelve-year-old or something in my spank bank. ”

Wade’s crass and inappropriate humour should appal Peter more, he’s sure of it, or at least make him feel uncomfortable. _‘Should’_ being the key word.  
He’s not uncomfortable. Mostly, he’s amused. And, honestly? A little flattered, too. Peter knows Wade is a huge flirt, and has never found that part of him particularly bothersome. He’s very tactile, too, as long as the barrier of his costume is still up, but never disrespectfully so. Always playful, always ready to back away. In that context, and in no other, Wade is all bark and no bite.

 _‘Not that you would mind_ a little _bite…’_ a very annoying little voice sing-songs in Peter’s head, and he does his best to send it back where it came from; this _really_ isn’t the best time for that particular train of thought.

“I don’t wanna know anything about your spank bank, thanks.” He comments, eventually, perhaps a little too forcefully. “I don’t wanna know anything about _anyone_ ’s spank bank, actually.”

“Why so defensive, Spidey? Got something to hide?” A pause, and Wade wiggles his would-be eyebrows in the most ridiculous way. “Am I in yours?”

Peter snorts in a way he really hopes is entirely believable.  
“You wish.”

“Man, _do_ I.” Wade shoots back, without missing a beat, the sigh that follows dreamy in a very wilful way. “But I ain’t delusional, baby boy. I know there’s no room for half-chewed avocados in sex fantasy brain folders.” He adds, with a smile that is so fake Peter almost feels himself grimacing at the sight.

Instead, he frowns. That is not the reply he’d expected.  
“Wade…” He begins, but Deadpool immediately interrupts him.

“I’m gonna go put something on. You go ahead and pull up Netflix. I’m feeling like crappy monster B-movie today, but don’t pick on my account.” He announces, making a beeline for his bedroom. “It really is a shame there are no Marvel TV shows in this universe. I could go for some _Agent Carter_ right about now. Hayley Atwell is a gift, lemme tell ya.” He adds, his continuing rambling muffled by the sound of his door closing.

 

Just like that, Peter is left to his own devices. Specifically, he is left silently cursing his foot-in-mouth syndrome, which always seems to be able to spoil every good mood that is created around him ever, as he bumps his head against the couch’s backrest, and glances at the ceiling as if it contained all the answers to his problems.  
As it stands, the only thing the ceiling contains is the little spider from before, which Peter swears is shaking its minuscule head in contempt.

“You’re still not helping.” He mumbles, forcing himself into a sitting position, as he reaches for the remote of Wade’s TV, and does a quick scroll of Netflix’s (extensive) catalogue of terrible _‘Big Bad Thing vs Other Big Bad Thing’_ flicks, finding nothing that particularly tickles his fancy, and electing to let Wade make the fateful choice instead.  
It’s when he sets down the remote that his eyes catch sight of his own backpack, resting against the leg of the coffee table, the camera strap hanging off the side.  
Oh, right.  
It happens, sometimes, with his life being as hectic as it is, having to carry his civvies around with him (or his costume, depending on the occasion), changing on a secluded roof somewhere, at times packing his own lunch box like a friggin’ kid off to elementary school.  
  
Such is the case today, his backpack containing a pair of jeans and a baggy sweater, together with his trusty (if battered) camera.  
He picks it up, concluding that scrolling through the pictures he’s taken so far into the week can be an acceptable way to pass the time while he waits for Wade to return.  
His thumb presses the _‘gallery’_ button, and a neat grid of colourful (mostly red and blue) rectangles appears on the screen in front of his eyes.

 _‘Not bad, Parker’_ he internally muses, as he surveys the Spider-Man photos he’s taken during patrol the other night, when Wade was busy on a bodyguard job he’s described as _‘boring as fuck but with a fat pay check’_ when Peter asked about it the following day.  
There’s one he’s particularly proud of, which will hopefully fly well with Jameson too: a mid-jump shot of himself about to land a well-deserved kick on a would-be mugger’s chest, the light of the rising Sun hitting his costume just enough for the colours to shine into the camera’s eye.  
  
The small smile that has blossomed on his lips dies a little when he presses the right arrow and a new picture pops up.  
A simple, artfully unfocused headshot of himself peering outside his bedroom window.  
Ah, right. He’d almost forgotten about this.  
  
At the start of the semester, Peter had seen, in passing, a flyer for a photography twelve-week-long workshop pinned to one of the many announcement boards scattered around campus. And he’d thought, why not? He _had_ a passion for the craft, and the extra credit would look good on his record either way.  
So, he’d signed up for it. And honestly, it had been a blast.  
The professor was a profoundly knowledgeable but approachable woman, and her end-of-the-week assignments always tickled his creativity bone.  
  
Except, this time, he’s stumped.

The prompt she’s given is pretty simple, and that, perhaps, is the problem. The single word _‘Portrait’_ is deceptively straightforward and intimidatingly vague, and with no directions to go on, he doesn’t quite know where to turn.  
As he scrolls through the pictures he’s taken in pursuit of the perfect shot, he feels himself grimacing more and more.

The problem is that taking pictures of people that don’t hide behind a mask is hard as hell.  
Peter feels he doesn’t ever quite manage to catch the extent of the emotion in their eyes, the subtle changes in their body language, the way their mouth curves in a smile or a frown. And that’s a huge friggin’ problem, when the whole point of the picture is to _portray_ someone.  
  
To sum up, it’s Sunday night, and he’s got nothing.

 

“ _Aaaaaand_ we’re back!” Wade announces, loudly, startling Peter out of his thoughts. “Have you picked the movie yet? Should I get popcorn? What the hell am I saying, of course I should get popcorn! And nachos! Yes! Good Deadpool, nice thinking.”  
Wade is wearing his mask, now, and moves into the kitchen without waiting for any sort of reply from Peter’s part, presumably in search of the aforementioned snacks.

Peter sighs, looking at Wade’s red-clothed head moving from side to side as he speaks, and he muses that he would much rather get another glimpse of the face behind the mask, of those twisting scars that can’t quite cover up the wide array of Wade’s expressions.

A beat, and his eyes go very, very wide.  
  
Oh.  
_Oh_.

“Alright, turns out I don’t actually have nachos, but I _do_ have cheese puffs, and they’re almost in date! So I guess we can—“ Wade begins, once he’s walked back into the room, but Peter stops him before he can go any further.  
  
“Can I take a picture of you without the mask on?”

Wade is stunned into silence for the second time that day.  
Peter can see the tension in his shoulders, and the way his fingers instinctively twitch towards the empty gun holsters strapped to his thighs, feet subtly shifting to a more defensive position.

“Why?” He asks, equal parts confused and wary, voice colder than Peter has ever heard it before.

“Photography assignment.” Peter answers honestly, finding no use in lying about his intentions. He quickly rummages through his backpack to produce the assignment paper his professor has given him (which doesn’t hold any identifying info on Peter Parker, of course), and hands it over to Wade.  
  
He picks it up gingerly, like it might explode at any second, and scans the few lines of text printed on the sheet. Then he does it again. And again.  
  
“I reiterate. Why?” Wade asks again, deadpan in a way that makes Peter’s insides squirm unpleasantly. Still, he manages to wave in the general direction of the piece of paper in Wade’s hand.

“I told you. It’s for the assignment. You’ve read the prompt.” He says, and lifts up his camera as if it were additional proof. “Been trying for a decent shot all week. Nothing so far. I thought maybe you could help.”

Wade shakes his head; the frown he’s pulling clear even behind the mask.  
  
“I still don’t get it.” He admits, sounding genuinely lost. “Why _me_? You’ve seen my face. Why the hell would you want _that_ in your assignment?” A pause, and then he appears to have a sudden epiphany, voice turning resigned. Bitter.

“Unless, of course, you’re trying to score sympathy-slash-shock points by turning in a pic of your friendly neighbourhood disfigured freak, which, granted, isn’t that bad of a plan.”

“Hey, no, hold on, what the hell?!” Peter sputters, insulted by the mere notion of him doing something like that. “Dude, come on, seriously? You know me better than that! I just thought of a killer shot with you in it– you, _Wade_ not _Deadpool_ , hence the no mask thing – that would be perfect for the assignment, and I thought there’d be no harm in asking for a friend’s help. That’s all.”  
  
The word _friend_ naturally flows from his lips, and Peter doesn’t backtrack. It’s the truth, anyway. That much he can allow himself to admit.  
  
Deadpool remains quiet, which is starting to freak Peter out. He’ll take all of Wade’s most uninspired double-entendres over this silence. For God’s sake, he hasn’t even _tried_ to make a terrible joke out of that _‘killer shot’_ line!  
Peter heaves a sigh, and shakes his head, opening his arms in a defeated gesture.

“Look, I get it, okay? Stupid idea. Pretend I didn’t say anything. Now can we just—”

“I’ll do it.”

Peter immediately shuts his mouth, and blinks stupidly at the white dots of Wade’s mask.

“Really?” He asks, cautiously, and Wade only nods, curtly.  
  
“Yeah.” A pause, and Peter can tell Wade’s eyes are shifting from side to side behind the mask. “That’s what friends are for, right?”  
  
The tone is as confident as ever, but Peter has known Deadpool long enough now to be able to pick up the slight hesitation in his voice, as if he were afraid Peter would realise some kind of slip-of-the-tongue he’s made and take back the title he’s given Wade.  
Despite himself, he feels his eyes soften as he speaks.  
  
“Right.” He hums, and the way Wade pretends _not_ to perk up at the tacit confirmation goes straight to Peter’s heart without giving him the time to bask in any kind of denial.  
Thankfully, a distraction comes soon enough, in the form of Wade shuffling on his feet, and looking around his flat.  
  
“So, uh. Where do you want me?” He asks, gesturing vaguely in front of him.

Peter stands, and takes a few purposeful strides towards Wade, who doesn’t recoil like he’s almost expected him to, but stands his ground, even as Peter grabs his arm to direct him. Despite that, Peter is still gentler than usual with him, making sure none of his enhanced strength bleeds into the simple touch. Wade is doing him a favour, after all, a pretty big one, at that; it’s the least Peter can do.

“Here.” He says, as they reach the window where Wade has been standing before.

Wade nods, and does as he’s told, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed as Peter chucks off his gloves to fidget with the camera hanging from his neck for a moment, pressing function buttons and fixing lighting and colour levels.  
When he looks up again, Wade hasn’t moved an inch, and his face is still covered.  
Carefully, he steps into his space, and raises both hands.

“Can I…?” He asks, fingers brushing the hem of Wade’s mask.

He only gets a minute nod in reply, but it’s enough.  
Slowly, gently, he peels it off.  
He feels the scars before he sees them, but he doesn’t stop.

When he meets Wade’s gaze, he smiles.

“There you are. Hey.”

Wade rolls his eyes a little, but his lips twitch upwards, too. Just a bit.

“Hey.” He croaks, finally breaking the unsettling silence from his part. Peter’s smile gets bigger.

“He talks!” he cries, dramatically, hand going to press against his chest. “And here I thought I’d managed to finally find the off switch.”

Wade rolls his eyes _harder_ , but he can’t quite keep in an amused snort at Peter’s clear attempt at lightening the mood.

“I got no off switch, Spidey. You should know that by now.” He says, and Peter huffs out a chuckle, nodding his assent.

“A man can dream.” He quips, then aims a small punch at Wade’s arm, no force behind it. “C’mon, now. Let’s get this thing over with so we can go be disgusting slobs in front of the TV instead.”

Wade bristles, and waves Peter’s comment off as the other walks backwards to get the framing he wants in his shot.

“Speak for yourself, I for one am one _delightful_ slob.”

Ridiculously enough, Peter finds himself agreeing with that statement.

The light coming from the window has shifted, now, and when Wade stands slightly turned to the side it falls in waves of dark yellow and orange all over the front of his body, accentuating the shape of the muscles bulking up the hoodie he’s wearing.  
The bumps and ridges criss-crossing his face create interesting patterns of light and shadow along the lines of his cheekbones, giving the angular, masculine planes of his face a somewhat softer edge.

Peter swallows.

“Right. Right, I’m gonna take a trial shot. Look anywhere but in the camera lens. Just… be yourself.” He says, and almost smacks himself in the forehead because of how lame that sounds.

Miraculously, Wade doesn’t comment, but simply nods, turning to look outside the window, at New York’s slowly darkening skyline.

The camera shutter clicks once, twice.  
Peter peers at the result, and hums. Not bad.  
  
“Can you move a little to the left?” Wade does, and Peter hums again. “Yeah, like that. Let me just…”

As he says that, he’s moving up to where Wade is standing again, camera hanging from the strap around his neck. He reaches out to grab at Wade’s arm, and Wade stills. Peter’s hand freezes, and he looks up at the other’s face for permission to continue. When Wade nods, Peter resumes his movement, and gently manoeuvres Wade’s arm, which had been stiffly resting against his side, to the window sill, where it can lay comfortably, basked in the amber light coming from the sky outside.  
  
Peter moves back to his original position, and takes a few more shots. When he looks at them in the camera’s little display, he’s smiling.  
  
“Perfect.” He murmurs, and he means it.  
  
He looks up when he doesn’t hear any comment, any request to see the result, and sees that Wade is fidgeting on the spot.  
His smile softens, and he breaches into Wade’s personal space again.  
  
“Thank you. I mean it.” He reiterates, making sure to meet Wade’s eyes, at least to the extent his mask will allow. He takes Wade’s arm again, and the merc doesn’t protest, this time, tugging him over towards the couch.

“C’mon. Let’s pick an _Asylum_ flick and see who can spot the most boom mikes.”  
  
Wade snorts out a laugh, and Peter beams under the mask.

(Peter catches one more than Wade does, but doesn’t call it, mostly because he’s too busy studying the way Wade’s scarred cheeks dimple a little when he laughs too hard at the movie’s terrible CGI; all in all, he’s fine with a tie)

 

\---

 

Wade grunts unhappily as he slams the door to his flat open with one foot.  
What a shitty fucking day.

First, the big job he’s scored two days prior is revealed to be a complete bust, since the stolen intel he’d been tasked to retrieve had already been wiped clear from the servers of the company he’s managed to break into, and _that_ party trick has lost him around ten grand.  
As if that weren’t enough, he’s had a run in with a bunch of incompetent goons sent by a gang he’s managed to piss off a while back, when he’s helped Spidey defuse a hostage situation. Not anything he couldn’t deal with, but he’s lost a pinkie in the fight, and Wade’s kind of fond of his pinkies; not to mention, he’s going to have to get a new glove.  
And for the cherry on top this steaming crap cake, his favourite Mexican food truck has been closed down indefinitely due to _‘health concerns’._  
  
At the moment, the only thing Wade’s concerned about is how exactly this day could possibly surprise him, and get any worse.  
Of course, as he thinks it, the inexplicable jinx that comes with any such rhetorical question strikes. Without mercy.

Because Wade sure as hell can tell if someone has broken in his place, and there’s no doubt that’s exactly what happened when he was away, having the worst time of his life.  
His hand moves quickly to his hip, snatching his favourite Desert Eagle from its holster, and he takes a few steps towards the kitchen, keeping an ear out for strange noises; oh, he’s no Daredevil, but he gets by with his relatively normal hearing just fine.

The room turns out to be empty. The only sign someone was even inside it at all is the window, which is now slightly ajar.  
Oh, and his laptop, of course, which is open on the table, screen displaying an unfamiliar website. Once Wade is certain whoever entered the place has actually left, he moves towards the laptop, still careful in case it’s been laced with something, or connected to a bomb (wouldn’t be the first time).

The site’s upper banner reads _‘Empire State University Online Resources’_ , and further down, in a slightly smaller font _‘Extracurricular: Photography – Student Forum’_.  
Uh. Weird. Why would anyone take the time to risk breaking into a well-known (mostly reformed, but still) mercenary’s place only to fuck with his laptop (come to think of it, how did they even guess his _password_?) and nothing else?  
  
The answer comes to him when he lets his eyes travel further down the web page, when they land on a familiar face.  
Specifically, his own.

It’s the picture Spidey’s taken just a week ago, that afternoon they’d crashed at his place after patrol. He remembers it, of course, and his heart rate picks up a little when his eyes are inevitably drawn to it.  
The low light coming from the window is kind to his rough skin, and his lips are turned just slightly upwards, as he looks outside, towards the sunset.  
He looks… surprisingly alright.

The picture is called _“Everyday Hero”_ , or so it says on the post’s title, and he’s not sure how to feel about it.

He dreads letting his gaze wander over the comments below, but he can’t look away either. The metaphor of the human gaze and a car wreck comes to mind: if he knows anything about the Internet (and he does) they are _not_ going to be nice.  
Or, you know. Even vaguely civil. His time in the depths of 4chan has taught him to be wary.

When he does, his eyes go very wide:

 **_dreamingsince93 [04/26/16 1:30 PM]:_ ** _“Wow man, that’s awesome! The lighting is on POINT."  
_

**_SecretlyBeyonce [04/26/16 8:47 PM]:_ ** _“Love the expression on the model. It’s like… sorta nostalgic, but happy.”_

 **_XxwowsuchadultxX [04/27/16 11:00 AM]:_ ** _“Great shot, dude, is the model a professional? Can you give me his number, for totally artistic reasons, of course ;) “_

 ** _Alex_J [04/27/16 12:30 PM]:_** _“10/10, and I ain’t just taking about the framing.”_  
  
_**IronMansTheMan92 [04/28/16 10:23 AM]:** “Is that a vet? Burn victim? Either way, he looks f***ing great. Everyday hero indeed. Kudos.”_

 ** _IronMansTheMan92 [04/28/16 10:24 AM]:_** _“Ugh, censorship. I f***ing hate the automated cursing filter on this site!”_  
  
_**IronMansTheMan92 [04/28/16 10:25 AM]:** “UGH.”_

People are not disgusted and/or vomiting on sight. Scratch that, they’re outright calling him _attractive_. What?  
He’s still processing that piece of intel, when one of the last comments catches his eye. _  
_

**_salty_AF [04/30/16 9:59 PM]:_ ** _“A+ job, parker dunno why u keep giving away ur shots to that a**hole jameson we all know he aint payin u enough for em”_

Oh? Parker?  
Now that he’s paying attention, there’s a little watermark on the bottom right of the picture: the words _‘Peter Parker 2016’_ followed by a tiny copyright symbol.  
Peter Parker.  
Where has he heard that name?  
  
He needs to clear his head. Because the voices aren’t being quiet, right now.  
  
_(Is the writer talking about us?)_  
**[Yes. But we don’t make that big of an appearance in this story; doesn’t work well with the flow of the narration, see.]**  
  
Wade shakes his head, and turns away from the laptop. By doing that, he spots something across the room.  
It’s a note, hanging from the ceiling by a thin thread of web, exactly in his line of sight. Clearly, this was done deliberately.  
  
Wade walks up to it, and plucks it off the strand.  
There’s a single word written on the paper, in red ink: _Wade_.

When he unfolds it, a picture falls off its fold. Wade picks it up from the floor, and his eyes meet the delicately smiling face of a young man, college-aged, with big doe eyes and a wild mop of brown hair.  
He stares for a while, then eventually manages to bring himself to open the card, and begins to read:  
  
  
_Wade,_

 _I really hope you liked the picture. It was worth a **very** good grade, so thanks, man. I owe you one._  
_I was thinking, though, and it didn’t seem fair: me having a picture of you and not the other way round._  
_And you know me, I’m **all** about fair play. So this is me, setting the record straight._  
_See you tonight. Same place, same time?_  
_Yours,_  
  
_Peter Parker (your friendly neighbourhood poor college student)_

Despite the shock, Wade finds himself snorting at that last sentence.  
Yeah, this is definitely from Spidey. He’d recognize that brand of dork anywhere.  
He looks at the photo again, and feels his heartbeat beginning to increase once more, for a completely different reason than before.  
  
_‘Well hello, Peter Parker. How very nice to meet you.’_

**Author's Note:**

> You can buy me a coffee **[here](http://ko-fi.com/A025LSR)** :)


End file.
